Fangs of Anarchy - Forbidden Alpha (Part 2) Girl Most Lycan: A Werewolf Vampire Shifter Romance Read online

  Fangs of Anarchy—Forbidden Alpha

  Part 2—Girl Most Lycan

  Copyright ©2014 Dakota Cassidy

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the copyright holder. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then purchase your own copy from appropriate distributor. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement from the author of this work.

  Copyright © Dakota Cassidy 2014 All Right Reserve

  Cover Art: Renee George

  Other works by Dakota Cassidy

  Paranormal Novels

  The Accidental Series:

  The Accidental Werewolf—Book 1

  Accidentally Dead—Book 2

  The Accidental Human—Book 3

  The Accidental Demon—Book 4

  Accidentally Catty—Book 5

  Accidentally Dead Again—Book 6

  The Accidental Genie—Book 7

  The Accidental Werewolf 2: Something About Harry—Book 8

  The Hell Series:

  Kiss & Hell—Book 1

  My Way to Hell—Book 2

  The Wolf Mates Series:

  An American Werewolf in Hoboken—Book 1

  Fangs of Anarchy—Forbidden Alpha

  Part 1—Alpha Down

  Contemporary Novels

  The Call Girls Series:

  Talk This Way—Prequel Novella

  Talk Dirty to Me—Book 1

  Something to Talk About—Book 2

  Talking After Midnight—Book 3

  The Ex-Trophy Wives Series:

  You Dropped a Blonde on Me—Book 1

  Burning Down the Spouse—Book 2

  Waltz This Way—Book 3

  Table of Contents

  Other works by Dakota Cassidy

  A Letter to Readers

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  JOIN Dakota Cassidy’s Newsletter, The Tiara Diaries!

  A Letter to Readers

  Dear readers,

  Please note: Fangs of Anarchy—Forbidden Alpha Part Two—Girl Most Lycan is the second installment of a multi-part serial. If you haven’t read book one, please read it first: Fangs of Anarchy—Forbidden Alpha Part 1—Alpha Down.

  This is an episodic paranormal romance with new releases approximately every two to three weeks. These are not intended as stand-alone reads, and there will be cliffhangers. Not big ones. Just little ones. Swear it. So no throwing stuff at me. J But I hope you’ll look for Fangs of Anarchy—Forbidden Alpha Part Three—Were in the World is Gannon Dodd coming soon!

  Chapter Six

  The silence in the library was deafening. No one moved. Not a single Road Dog breathed, but their eyes zeroed in on Irish and Claire, narrowed with ugly suspicion.

  The stench of alcohol was rife amongst the Dogs, invading her nose with the putrid mix of booze and sweat.

  Irish’s gaze locked with Courtland’s while the werewolf processed Irish’s admission.

  Do not pass out, Claire. Do. Not. She fought the urge to allow the black void of unconsciousness to swallow her up, the aching throb in her temple an incessant pounding. She gripped Irish’s arm as he faced off with Courtland. “Stop, Irish!” she managed, swaying on buttery knees, her head light.

  Claire took a long, ragged breath, focusing on inner healing, forcing herself to hurry the process along so she remained coherent enough to keep Irish from confessing to something he didn’t do.

  As her head began to clear, Claire remained between the two men, moving her hand to Irish’s chest and appealing to Courtland, hoping her voice didn’t tremble. “He’s lying. All vampires are liars. You know that, Courtland. You say it all the time. I killed your vile, piece-of-shit brother.” She held out her hands, wrists turned up, without even a second thought. “So lock me up and throw away the key.”

  Courtland looked at them both, his eyes darting between Irish and Claire’s faces. “What the hell kind of bullshit is this? Is this some kind of trick?”

  Irish shoved her around him, wrapping an arm behind his body to hold her firmly against his back. “She’s lying. I killed your brother.”

  Claire dug into his back, using her knuckle to drive between his shoulder blades. Standing on tiptoe, she whispered in his ear. “Um, vampire?”

  “Yes, werewolf?” Irish said out of the side of his mouth, his eyes still pinned on Courtland.

  “This was not part of the plan. Ixnay on taking the ame-blay.”

  “The what-ay?”

  “Don’t you know pig Latin?”

  “No. But I do speak Russian and French. A little Italian. Very little Spanish and some Vietnamese. Though, the last time I spoke Vietnamese, I ended up in a rice paddy with someone named Miss Precious-Lou. Don’t want to freak you out with details, but let’s just leave it at it’s been twenty years and I’m still afraid of rice paddies.” He mock shuddered, amusement in his coal eyes.

  Claire yanked on his ponytail, jerking his head back. “In the immortal words of you—not a time to joke. I won’t let you do this, Irish,” she whispered in his ear with a hiss. “What about Hadley? Didn’t you just give me that whole speech about her safety?”

  “Yep. And then I remembered you’d be much better at child rearing. There’s no rule that says a were can’t raise a vampire. Just that we can’t mate with one another. She needs a woman in her life, and I need some rest. Do you have any idea the kind of garbage she listens to on Pandora? And let’s not forget the makeup she wants to wear or the clothes she seems to always need even though she hasn’t changed a size in five years. The teenager-in-perpetuity thing is exhausting since we age so slowly. Jail would probably be a lot less tiring. Anyway, I’ve been thinking, she needs a solid female influence. Tag, you’re it.”

  “A murderer is hardly a solid influence, Irish.”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Wouldn’t you be a murderess, Librarian? You know, you being a female and all? And okay, so there’s a blight on your squeaky-clean record. It’s just one. We all make mistakes. Some bigger than others.”

  A quick glimpse at Courtland and the Dogs and the utter confusion on their faces as she and Irish argued made Claire roll her eyes and yank harder on his hair, giving it a good jerk until his neck arched and he winced from the angle. “You won’t just end up in the clink, Dracula. They’ll kill you, Irish. Knock if off.”

  “Or?”

  Dragging him backward by his hair, she gave him a good shove and turned back to face a stunned Courtland. “I killed Gannon. You said you had a witness, right? Case closed. So let’s get this over with. Do whatever it is you do with alpha-murdering werewolves, and let’s be done.”

  Irish stepped back in front of her, pushing her aside once more. “Your witness is wrong, not to mention blind. It was me. Now giddy-up, pardner.” Irish turned, putting his hands behind his back to indicate his submissi
on to Courtland, but only after he winked at her and smiled.

  Claire narrowed her eyes just before shoving him out of the way with an elbow to his ribs, smiling in satisfaction when she heard Irish grunt. “If your witness says he saw me, don’t you at least have to question me, Courtland? What kind of show are you running here, amateur? Gannon’s dead. That leaves you as alpha in charge, and it’s your responsibility to check out any and all leads. I’d say a witness is a pretty big one, wouldn’t you? So, pony up, alpha,” she taunted, knowing full well it would get his goat.

  His sibling rivalry with Gannon was legendary amongst the pack. Courtland had always looked up to Gannon as some sort of bizarre mentor, only to hate him for the mentoring.

  As if on cue, Courtland leaned in, his upper lip covered in a film of perspiration, his face red with rage. “Is my brother’s death a joke to you two?”

  Claire let her eyes go wide with mock horror. “Hah! Don’t be such a goose. I didn’t laugh at the time, if that’s what you’re asking. I mean, there was a lot of blood. He ruined a perfectly nice dress and a pair of shoes, he bled so much. Believe you me, I was not laughing.”

  “Claire…” Irish warned, his voice gravelly and sinister.

  She flapped a hand over her shoulder in Irish’s general direction. “And don’t listen to Doom and Gloom. He’s delusional. I killed Gannon, and I can prove it.”

  Courtland’s meaty paws grabbed the front of her dress, yanking her up until her feet dangled. “I’ll kill you, you stupid fucking cunt!”

  Irish became a blur of leather and fists when he snatched Claire right out of Courtland’s hands as though he were plucking daisies from a garden, and handed her over to his brother Liam.

  He flashed his fangs, hissing his anger at Courtland before moving in on him, cold menace in his eyes, his jaw clenched tight.

  Irish was only taller than Courtland by an inch or so, but that inch, coupled with his ability to loom with fierce intimidation, made him appear ten feet taller. “You touch her again, and I’ll eat my way through your intestines. And if I ever hear you address a woman like that in my presence, no matter what you’re accusing her of, I’ll kill you, Courtland.”

  He gave the werewolf a hard shove, knocking him into the Road Dogs while the Fangs laughed.

  “Now—I killed Gannon, and I have the proof. Your witness is full of shit. So, you want proof she’s lying or do you just want to manhandle her ’til I have to show your crew here a little lesson in respect?”

  Proof? No. He hadn’t actually buried Gannon, had he? He’d left behind proof? Somewhere, in the dark recesses of Claire’s muddled mind, she’d expected that Irish would leave no evidence behind—not even a hint of Gannon’s scent, let alone his body.

  Of all the damn foolhardy things to do.

  No more foolhardy than you forgetting to look for your intended’s ride, Genius.

  Okay, so she and Irish were both a couple of complete morons when it came to lies and deception, but at least she would have taken measures to ensure Gannon was never found.

  Claire struggled to break the hold Liam had on her, but he kept a tight grip around her wrists, his hands like bands of steel, his hissed words at her ear. “Stop fighting me, Claire! Just let this play out, and trust.”

  Trust? No-no. Irish knew where Gannon was because he’d done the body dumping. He had all the proof he needed. Oh God, she couldn’t believe she hadn’t asked him what he’d done with Gannon’s corpse.

  She couldn’t let him do this. Why was he doing this? “Let me go, Liam, or I’ll shift and tear your throat out!”

  Liam’s lips were suddenly at her neck, his hands tightening as he held them behind her back. “But probably not before I drain you. Don’t make me do that, Claire. Please. I like you. The crew likes you. Hadley likes you. Irish would probably make me swallow a gallon of holy water for it, and he said to protect you at all costs. I’m just doing my job as his right hand—don’t screw that up, okay?”

  Claire didn’t have time to process Liam’s words, or comprehend that they were laced with Irish’s desire to protect her. Raw fear—so real, so bone-deep—cut through her like a knife at what Irish was about to do.

  Irish was going to take the blame for her and they would make Claire watch as they killed him.

  Her stomach heaved just as everyone began to file out of the library, Irish moving in front of Courtland willingly, while the Dogs sandwiched them. Her mind raced. Panic began to shut her brain down, but she fought the haze and tried to think while Liam held her in his grasp.

  The roar of motorcycle engines gunning drifted to her ears, spiking her anxiety.

  And then an idea hit her out of the blue.

  Never let it be said that when she’d played Pilgrim Number One in her fifth-grade play, she damn well didn’t deserve an Oscar for her amazing ability to portray a woman shucking corn. Because surely phrases like “uncanny” and “eerily true to life” had been used when referring to her performance.

  Chapter Seven

  She went limp in Liam’s grasp, falling back against him until she felt him push her upward for support, hooking his hands under her armpits.

  “Claire? Are you all right? Claire?”

  She slammed her eyes shut and trusted he’d fully catch her, letting herself go completely boneless.

  When his arms went around her, she let her head loll to the right, mentally patting herself on the back for faking a good old-fashioned faint.

  Liam tapped her face with a gloved hand. “Claire? Claire!”

  She kept her body slack and her eyes closed while he felt for a pulse.

  Liam grunted, muttering, “Jesus Christ,” before he scooped her up and carried her out of the library behind everyone else.

  The second they hit the bottom of the library steps, Claire made a break for it, popping up in Liam’s arms and launching herself to the ground, stumbling when she hit a patch of ice, and skidding into her car before getting her footing.

  She heard Liam cuss, felt the pound of his feet on the snow-covered ground in her bones as she began to shift, focusing on the crunch of morphing muscle and changing flesh. At the very least, she knew she could outrun him or, if nothing else, get a good head start.

  Her clothing seemingly melted away from her body, falling to the ground as her paws formed. She threw her body forward at the waist and her legs became haunches. The feel of the icy snow beneath her feet brought with it a burst of exhilaration.

  She might not love the hunt and even less the kill, but she loved the freedom she experienced in shift. The salty wind blowing in from the ocean swept over her fur, ruffling it as it began to sprout in thick patches over her body. She gained speed, sprinting for the woods and listening for the sound of the Dogs’ motorcycles.

  Claire drove her nose to the forest floor, blocking out Liam bellowing her name, intent on locating the scent of Gannon’s body. If Irish truly had buried him, he could be in a million places, but if she could get to Gannon before that pack of sweaty mongrels, she could prevent them from finding him.

  Maybe. She was only so fast.

  Her thoughts flew to the old campgrounds, covered in white pine, as the roar of the Dogs’ engines grew, carried on the frosty wind. It was as likely a spot as any—plenty of places to hide a body.

  Her sniff was frantic, her muzzle scraping the ground as she flew over the dense areas, leaping over fallen logs, pushing her way through frozen brush.

  She skidded to a halt when she heard the roar of motorcycles cut off. Twisting her head, she listened, trying to pinpoint their location.

  Claire wondered if Irish had the gift of telepathy, as some older vampires did, because she was damn well going to send him a message.

  God damn you, Irish! If they don’t kill you, I’m going to do it for them! What are you doing?

  When it really worked, and his thick chuckle popped into her head like a seed germinating, she almost jumped out of her skin.

  Claire? Where are you?r />
  Where are you? she countered.

  None of your beeswax, Librarian.

  Irish! This is crazy.

  If you’re not with Liam, I’m going to tan your hide, Claire!

  Meow.

  You’re not with Liam, are you?

  She kept the words in her mind on silent.

  Claire, Claire, Claire…go home! What the hell are you doing, and where’s Liam? He was supposed to be watching you.

  I ditched him. I pretended to faint. You should have seen me—I was brilliant. He totally fell for it. Your brother’s a sucker.

  Jesus, Claire. You’re as bad at letting me play knight-in-shining-armor as you are at murder. Why are you always so difficult?

  Irish, please stop this madness—you’re scaring me! I don’t need you to protect me!

  She closed her eyes again, her ears twitching, listening for his husky voice to invade her mind once more.

  Nothing.

  Argh, men!

  Lifting her snout to the wind, Claire followed it, picking up a vague hint of Irish’s cologne about a hundred yards away.

  Her heart pushed at her chest so hard she was sure it would pop right out when she found them all gathered around an old hardtop camper. It sat in a row with three or four others, all of them rusted and covered in ice.

  She heard Liam call out to Irish as he approached the group, the Fangs coming out of the shadows behind him.

  He’d left Gannon in a camper? Really? Rather than dump his sorry ass somewhere in the ocean where he’d be so much chum, Irish had left him right out in the open where almost anyone could find him—and worse, with her scent still all over the corpse?

  Jesus. Jesus and a ring of fire. What kind of fresh hell was this?

  No. This couldn’t be right. Irish was proving to be one surprise after another lately, but he was no idiot.

  For sure, Freya would call her stupid for trusting a vampire, but Claire knew better than to question whether Irish would out her. Irish was many things, but he wasn’t a snitch; her instincts hammered that into her gut.